


A Little Night Music

by by_no_one_more_than_me (Lady_Cleo)



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Hidden Depths, Hidden Talents, Innuendo, M/M, Musical References, Shameless Puns, Surprises, Zero to Sixty in a blink, do not copy to another site, mystrade, well that was unexpected
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-31
Updated: 2020-05-31
Packaged: 2021-03-02 19:00:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,184
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24451747
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lady_Cleo/pseuds/by_no_one_more_than_me
Summary: On a quiet night, Greg Lestrade ends up at a piano bar in Soho - and gets the shock of his life.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade
Comments: 22
Kudos: 89





	A Little Night Music

**Author's Note:**

> This was the direct result of my first ever writing sprint.

It's a quiet night - too quiet. The criminals of London are apparently taking a holiday and his inbox has been cleared of all backlog; he'd be grateful for the lull if it didn't leave him so damn bored. Out of the office at 6 on the dot, a ready meal consumed in his spotless flat and nothing left to drink in the fridge.

By a quarter of 9, he's in a mood; by half past, he's in an outfit he hasn't dared try since before the final decree came through - midnight blue buttondown with a subtle silver pinstripe and a pair of jeans that make his ass look _extra_ good. On a whim he ends up in Soho, appreciating the roguish throwback charm lent him by the vintage leather jacket as many appreciative looks swing his way. The avenue offers a variety of intriguing options for the evening's entertainment, but a faint blue glow visible in a pavement-level window lures him like a siren song.

Letters spelling _**Down Here --**_ **> **dot the railing along a short flight of narrow concrete stairs that he descends from the world above. It feels subtly momentous, like he's tipping himself down the rabbit hole. The place is called the Noteworthy - jazz club, piano bar. A tasteful chalked sign by the door informs him it's cabaret night, and there's a palpable buzz in the air even through plaster, timber and glass. The guy on the rope takes a deep look into Greg's coffee gaze and lets him in without a cover charge.

(Maybe it's that the entertainment is due to end in half an hour. Then again, it might be the jeans.)

It's a decent crush inside, not quite a packed house but respectable, dotted around small standing tables and curled up in cozy booths around the perimeter. The bar is backlit and blue neon rings the windows, adding their glow to the low lamps and carefully spaced sconces that turn potential gloom into an intimate invitation. A roving saxophonist is finishing his number to moderate approval, moving off the floor with a flourish as a piano appears on the tiny darkened stage at the front, sat in front of a plush curtain Greg thinks might be purple.

No sooner has he scored one of the cocktail specials from the bar and snagged a seat at a miraculously empty quarter booth against the wall than a whiskey-voiced announcement of the final act sends the crowd into a rapturous uproar. Less than a minute later the house lights go down, plunging the room into a hush of darkness. There's a hint of movement near the stage, and the tang of anticipation lies heavy in the air as any morning fog.

"I... am what I am...." a voice proclaims with quiet pride, less singing than it is mellifluous speech delivered in an androgynous tenor. It's a salvo, an opening gambit, a subtle tease. "I am my own... _special_... creation..." The breathless emphasis turns the lyric into a secret, whispered in the dark. A ripple of piano keys feels like it's being played across the strings of Greg's heart.

The spotlight starts tight, a dancing ball of illumination the size of a coaster, like Tinkerbell in a stage production of Peter Pan. Then it lands on the glittering toe of a fashionable t-strap ruby slipper. The light expands as it skims the way a lover's palm would over well-turned ankles and shapely calves, the knees set one over the other and the flash of toned thighs in gartered stockings visible through a daringly high slit in the matching dress. The continuous sight of legs that go on for a few miles at least leaves Greg's throat in sudden need of a fortifying sip.

The song has continued in its coy style while the widening spotlight makes its rising journey, and they're approaching what sounds like a bridge by the time a slender torso and long pale arms have come into view. The deep v of the dress's neckline shows off a smooth chest too angular to be feminine, and Greg has just enough time to notice the fine sprinkling of arm hair winking in the spotlight's glow before it flashes full and reveals the singer. 

Mycroft bloody Holmes is perched atop the piano, kohl outlining those lethally cool eyes, lips stained a vivacious scarlet, hair an androgynous tumble of auburn curl. He's crooning some anthemic showtune with the sensuality of Mae West and the steel spine he's possessed since sometime near birth, not a care in the world he's currently taking command of via song.

Varnished nails and costume bracelets notwithstanding, the audience is in the palm of his hand and Greg is happily trapped in their trembling midst. The song is powerful and faintly familiar, though all Greg knows for sure and certain in this moment is that he does not want Mycroft to stop singing... and that he will never be the same once he does. A few in the crowd are quietly murmuring along with lyrics they clearly know but most are content to simply watch and absorb - or they're like Greg, shocked into submission. They seem to be breathing as a single entity, vibrating with banked excitement - as though they wouldn't dare disturb the performance with the raucous appreciation they mutually agree it deserves.

The hand not providing tenuous balance on the smooth lacquered piano top floats through a small routine of gestures that play up the production - a slide of fingertips from bicep to shoulder, the smoothing down of a nonexistent wrinkle from the fabric still hugging his legs, a tender brush of knuckles against one cheek before a deft flick of the hand towards the ceiling. Head pivoting into alignment above a shoulder in an almost coquettish pose, a slight drop conveying reflection, a sharp snap straight to hit the crowd with the full force of his gaze before a dramatic tip back to project to the rafters. It sounds like his soul is leaving his body, and Greg's feels as though it's been hauled along for the ride.

Before he fully realises time hasn't been as suspended as himself, the song is over. That impressive belt had been the final note. The crowd is instantly on its feet, a deafening swarm of cheers and claps and piercing whistles, lavishing praise on a clear favourite, pleading for the moment to last. The ovation feels like an orgasm, and lasts as long as a good one.

Greg is fascinated to see what's coming next, even if he's far from sure he'd survive any more...

* * *

The lights come up as Mycroft alights from the piano with the grace of a predatory feline, sweeping into a lavish curtsy before offering a hand to his accompanist who allows himself to be tugged off the bench for a collective bow. The government official feels like a star - swirling, luminous, powerful to those basking in his radiance and reflecting it back to him... despite the distance enforced by safe necessity.

In the still dim light he catches a flash of silver, feels the furrow forming above his penciled brows as icy blue eyes meet blown pupils swimming in espresso pools. His throat works, his mind reels and his step in the well-worn stiletto falters just a little as he goes to descend from the stage, grateful for the deft passing off from accompanist to appreciative audience that masks the stumble.

Normally he wouldn't dare risk this slight increase in possible exposure, the weight of what he could lose not worth all the applause in the world. He'd be through the curtain changing in an elated rush, costume shed like a second skin, cold cream and flannel vigorously applied until the faint roses in his cheeks and the dazzle in his eyes like the sparkle of a mirror ball remain the only telltales of his adventures. He'd be slipping out the back door into a prearranged minicab, dropped at a predestined location before a brisk cut through the park to a waiting towncar - a human shell game, 3-card Mycroft making sure the queen is never followed.

Tonight though... is no ordinary night. Tonight, Gregory is here, and Gregory has seen, and if he bolts Gregory will know - and he has to know what Gregory will do.

So he moves, one hand deceptively calm on his hip to mask the tremor threatening to give away the game, and allows his free one to rest briefly in holds and accept soft damp tokens of love pressed to the back before a shimmering champagne cocktail is pressed into the palm by the bartender. He slinks, a sequined panther in the neon twilight until the circuit brings him face to face with his quarry, who swallows a little too hard before wrapping a gentle arm around Mycroft's middle and drawing him down to join him in the darkened booth.

(A calculated gamble on both their parts, but it seems to be paying off.)

The lingering crowd disperses, casting the occasional glance of curious resignation at the pair but otherwise gifting them with privacy.

Gregory's arm is still around his waist. Lover of rare gifts that he is, Mycroft finds himself disinclined to see to its removal.

"So, Inspector," he murmurs, lips a breath away from the rim of the glass he's holding as much for cover as consumption. The chilled liquid fizzes like starlight on the way down, and Mycroft lets his eyes slide closed a moment before pinning Greg with a look from beneath his mascaraed lashes. "Did you enjoy the show?" 

The first syllable of the DI's response is a little high and uneven, the squelch of microphone feedback. "Ver- _ahem_... very much."

(He thinks it might be the compact sincerity of that statement making his toes and the edges of his lips curl up.)

"I'm so glad."

"You were really..." Lestrade reaches out and takes a nerve-dampening gulp of his own libation, his fingers absently flexing against Mycroft's lower ribs, faintly tickling through the fabric. The resulting squirm brings them a bit closer, facing one another a little more squarely as he sets the glass back down without loosing his hold on anything. "... _really_ good."

"You're too kind, Inspector," Mycroft demurs as his gaze plumbs the depths of his drink for directions out of the looking glass land he seems to have fallen into. He's not really sitting here with the most handsome man in Christendom, who isn't actually holding him like he has no intention of letting go anytime soon, who can't have truly enjoyed this unexpected sighting of Mycroft's most secret self... right?

But then there's that subtle tightening of the arm around his waist, and the press of a muscular denim-clad thigh against his own, and a soft-spoken 'hey' to get his eyes to return to the ones quietly drinking in his features. 

"D'ya think you might... call me Greg? Known each other long enough."

In lieu of an immediate reply Mycroft relinquishes his drink as he draws up the arm nestled between them and rearranges it in a drape over Greg's near shoulder, elbow set snug against the polished leather before he leans in and rests his chin atop his fingers. "Any other requests... _Greg?_ " He breathes over the scant handful of inches separating them.

The damnably adorable man then ups the stakes by sinking his teeth into that _(admittedly biteable)_ lower lip of his, pinning the grin threatening to break out and light up the room. "I, uh... don't suppose there's any way I could tempt you into an encore?" Those puppy-dog eyes now bear the soft glow of candlelight through a glass of whiskey. 

_You utter rogue,_ Mycroft thinks with heated fondness, letting his own eyes twinkle and the painted edges of his nails graze the peek of skin above Greg's collar before threading into the silver strands at his nape. "My dear Gregory... you and you alone could tempt me into any number of things."

"Yeah?" An intriguing temperate dichotomy is introduced when Greg's chilled palm leaves his glass and weaves a barely perceptible trail above the warm solid pressure still holding Mycroft close - though that's hardly the only thing making him shiver. "We could make it a private performance, in case you really wanted to show off your... range." His next line is a muted rumbling whisper in Mycroft's ear, the first draw of a bow over cello strings. "Something tells me it's _impressive_."

A ventilated chuckle escapes Mycroft as his other arm winds around the pleasingly broad shoulders of his impending lover in a possessive clinch. "Run you through my _vast and varied_ repertoire, as it were?"

"Mmmm," he affirms with a punctuating brush of lips at Mycroft's earlobe. "I promise to be an enthusiastic audience."

"I've a feeling, darling..." The tips of their noses bump as they rearrange, preparing for the rising coda to the first finale. Their mouths hover so close he feels Greg's lips against his with every syllable spoken in loving layers of stereophonic resonance. 

"We're going to make beautiful music together."

**Author's Note:**

> So that was the thing. Hope you enjoyed my little interlude and forgave my cheesy wordplay.
> 
> Mycroft's song is the iconic number "I Am What I Am" from _La Cage Aux Folles_ because I decided if he was going to be expressing himself by performing on the sly in a piano bar, he was going to be singing the Unapologetic Gay Anthem.
> 
> Comments and kudos make my heart sing.


End file.
